“That’s where the nickname came from originally,” I admitted. “The Serpent.” My gaze drifted somewhere distant. “Because even as a boy, people said I was filled with poison.”
I remembered it too clearly. Cold marble floors. Silver spoons. The metallic taste coating my tongue. My father watching me convulse without blinking.
“He tested me constantly,” I said quietly. “Business. Violence. Loyalty. Pain.” My jaw clenched harder. “Nothing was ever enough for him.”
“And Sergio?” Chiara asked softly.
Something shifted in my chest hearing his name from her.
“Sergio was older than me,” I said. “Already working for my father.” A faint breath left me. “He’s the only person who ever stepped between me and that man.”
I remembered Sergio dragging me out of bathrooms after I got sick. Teaching me how to shoot. How to fight. How to survive without becoming exactly like my father.
“He practically raised me,” I admitted. Chiara looked at me carefully now. Like she was piecing something together for the first time.
“What happened to your father?” she asked quietly.
I leaned back slightly against the bathtub, one arm still wrapped tightly around her.
“The bratva happened.” The words came cold.
“Shootout at the docks.” I stared ahead emotionlessly. “Messy. Brutal. He died bleeding out on concrete with half his empire collapsing around him.”
Chiara swallowed hard.
“And you know the worst part?” I asked softly.
“What?”
“I was relieved,” I muttered. The confession echoed heavily through the bathroom.
“I didn’t cry at his funeral,” I continued. “I didn’t mourn him. I walked into his office the next morning, promoted Sergio, took control of everything…” My mouth hardened. “And swore I would never let this organization become what he made it.”
Chiara studied me silently.
“My father ruled through fear alone,” I said. “Drugs. Women. Sloppiness. Chaos.” Disgust curled through me. “Weak men pretending brutality made them powerful.”
“And you?”
I looked down at her slowly. “I prefer control.”
The words settled between us. Not kind. Not gentle. But honest. Chiara’s eyes searched mine again, softer now than before. Like maybe she finally understood why darkness recognized darkness so easily between us. I brushed my thumb beneath her cheek, catching another tear before it could fall.
“You’re not weak for loving people,” I said quietly.
The words surprised even me.
Chiara stared at me like they hurt worse than cruelty ever could.
And God help me, I almost said it then. The truth, however, remained lodged in my throat.
Chapter Nineteen: CHIARA
Iwoketangledinblacksilk sheets and confusion. For a few sleepy seconds, I didn’t understand why the warmth pressed against my back felt wrong. Then memory came rushing in all at once. Leo’s penthouse. Leo’s bed. Leo’s arm heavy around my waist like it belonged there.
My husband. The thought still sent something sharp through my chest.
Soft silver morning light spilled through the towering glass windows, washing the room in pale clouds and muted Manhattan skyline. The city looked distant from up here. Untouchable. Quiet. Everything felt strangely peaceful, except for the dangerous man asleep behind me. I tried carefully to slide out from beneath his arm without waking him.
